


wouldn't put it like that

by ferryboatpeak



Series: into the harryverse [2]
Category: Harry Styles (Artist), One Direction (Band), Saturday Night Live
Genre: Angels and Demons, M/M, Multiverse, Selfcest, beyond burger, getting railed to death, harryverse, jumpsuits, one eroda joke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:47:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21656272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferryboatpeak/pseuds/ferryboatpeak
Summary: “Heard it was SNL tonight.” The demon saunters through the hotel suite’s sitting room. “Thought we could have a little party,”
Relationships: Harry Styles/Harry Styles
Series: into the harryverse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561255
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	wouldn't put it like that

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd so i have no one to blame but myself

The angel stands in front of the flatscreen, flicking it off and back on again, doublechecking to make sure it stays tuned to NBC. He ticks the volume up several notches, then back down. Finally, he tosses the remote onto the sofa just to get it out of his hands. Slipping his phone from the pocket of his white jumpsuit, he checks the time -- 20:22 -- and places it in front of him on the coffee table before collapsing with an impatient huff on the end of the sofa opposite the remote.

He’s up again almost immediately, pacing restlessly over to the room service trolley to pour a glass of champagne. He shouldn’t (he  _ really _ shouldn’t, tonight of all nights), but there’s no reason to think anything will go wrong, is there? Jeffrey’s there, and Ben Winston, and there’s not much the angel could handle that they can’t. Still, he’s been on edge ever since the Cancun incident. So many Harrys converging, each one unmoored from his respective universe. He’s got to make sure nothing like that happens again. 

A decisive knock at the door of the hotel suite startles him into sloshing champagne down his fingers. Swearing under his breath, he slides the glass onto the table next to his phone and tiptoes toward the door. The thick carpet muffles his footsteps as he approaches the peephole suspiciously. Nobody knows he’s here, and room service has come and gone already. 

On the other side of the fisheye lens, his own face looms large above a plunging neckline framed by purple sequins. The angel backs up. He combs his fingers through his hair and tugs his jabot straight before he flips back the security latch and pulls open the door. “What are you doing here?”

The demon sidesteps past him into the suite, sequins scraping against the angel’s knuckles in the narrow entryway. He’s got a black bottle by the neck in one hand. “Heard it was SNL tonight.” The demon saunters through the suite’s sitting room, looking up at the high ceilings and trailing his fingers along the back of the sofa. At the window, he twitches back the edge of the thick damask curtain. “Thought we could have a little party,” he says to the glass, peering out over Manhattan.

The angel’s shoulderblades tingle, right where his wings would erupt if he wasn’t trying to be unobtrusive in the city. The demon suddenly pivots back toward him. “Catch!” The bottle in his hand sails over the sofa and across the suite.

“Fucker.” The angel lunges for the bottle and snags it with one hand just before it hits the floor. He straightens up, looking at the label. Casamigos.

The demon leans a hand against the frame of the double doors into the suite’s bedroom and pokes his head inside. The angel hadn’t expected to sleep here tonight -- there's too much to do, a whole afterparty to keep an eye on, the possibility that Harry could make all kinds of terrible Xander-related decisions. But suddenly’s he’s conscious of the pristine expanse of the king-sized bed, all the corners crisply tucked under like a wrapped present. He flushes and turns away to browse through the glassware on the bar, wondering what the demon expects to pour tequila into.

He looks back over his shoulder when the silverware rattles on the trolley behind him. “What the fuck is this?” The demon’s got the room service cloche tilted upward. He jabs a finger at the contents of the plate underneath.

“It’s a Beyond Burger,” the angel says defensively. “It’s vegan.”

“No shit.” The cloche clangs back down. In two strides, the demon’s at the desk, dialing the phone. “Room service, please.” He clacks his fingertips against the desktop, pink and blue and pink and blue tapping down in a staccato sequence while he waits on the line. “A cheeseburger, medium rare… no, not the Beyond Burger… no, yes, you had the last order right.” The demon rolls his eyes. “It’s only that I’ve changed my mind about being a vegan… yes, just in the last ten minutes. I’ve seen the light.” He flips a cheery middle finger at the angel. “And send up some limes too, please.”

The angel glances back at the television. “Shit, time.” Text is scrolling across the Capitol Building. He hurries to the sofa and retrieves the remote.

“Just the cold open,” the demon says lazily, hanging up the phone. “He won’t be in it.”

“How do you know?” The angel jabs the volume button with indignant emphasis. “Justin Timberlake did the cold open. Remember, the Hugo Chavez song?”

“Believe me, I’ve got some friends at SNL.” The demon vaults over the back of the sofa and into the seat next to the angel. Water drips from his hair.

“Why are you wet?” the angel asks suspiciously.

The demon inspects the damp sequins on the sleeve of his jumpsuit. “I dunno,” he says with surprise. “It just happens sometimes. Do you mind it?”

“You’re soaking through the cushion,” the angel points out.

“Sorry.” The demon inelegantly sweeps his arm down his chest and out to the side. The water evaporates from his jumpsuit. His freshly dried hair looks perfect. The angel tries not to be jealous.

The cold open stretches on interminably. Harry doesn’t follow American politics in any universe, so the angel doesn’t get any of the jokes. He jiggles his leg impatiently as the sketch finishes and the opening credits start to roll. They’re unforgivably long.

“I think you could use some more champagne.” The demon swipes the glass off the table and knocks it against the back of the angel’s clenched fingers.

“I shouldn’t.” The angel tries to wave it away. God, how many more cast members are in the alphabet?

The demon fixes him with one of those stares that the angel ought to be immune to, since he’s a master at them himself. “Drink up.”

The angel takes a gulp of champagne. “Host and musical guest!” announces the television.

“Oh, there he is!” The angel gingerly claps around the stem of his champagne glass as HARRY STYLES appears on the screen in capital letters, followed shortly by Harry himself.

The demon raises an eyebrow at Harry’s white jacket. “The suiting’s a bit boring. Should have gone with a jumpsuit.”

The angel nods in agreement as Harry preens in front of the cheering audience onscreen. “Jumpsuit’s always the best move.” 

“Or at least one of those Harris Reed outf…”

“Shhhh.” The angel cuts him off with a hiss, flapping his hand at the demon as the cheers die down. “He’s starting.”

He’s so intent on the monologue that he doesn’t realize the demon’s on his feet again until he thunks the champagne bottle against the angel’s glass. “Hold still,” the demon instructs, tipping up the bottle as Harry utters the words “One Direction” for the first time since 2015.

“Shhhh!” the angel hisses again. The demon’s about to interrupt a Zayn joke. But he obediently holds up his glass to be topped off. The demon steps languorously over him to reclaim his seat on the sofa, taking his time as he blocks the angel’s view. The angel bobs back and forth to see the screen on either side of the demon’s hips.

The purple sequined nightmare thankfully keeps his mouth shut for Harry’s first sketch. Everything’s going well so far. Harry’s doing great as Rob the intern. The angel finishes his glass of champagne.

“Nice work.” The demon thumps him on the knee and stands up as the sketch ends. “Time for tequila now.”

Harry doesn’t seem to be in the next sketch, so the angel watches as the demon collects two heavy-bottomed glasses from the bar and tucks the Casamigos bottle under one arm. He snags the salt shaker from the trolley in his other hand, and lines everything up on the coffee table in front of the angel. The demon looks around the room with a disappointed expression. “No limes yet.”

Right on cue, there’s a knock at the door. The demon’s face brightens. On screen, a dog morphs into Harry. The angel suddenly realizes that the bellhop is about to be very confused. “Shit!” He looks frantically back and forth between the screen and the demon. “There’s... three of us. You have to hide.”

“Please,” the demon scoffs. “I’ve got this.” He flashes a finger gun at the angel.

The angel looks down at the gesture, and when he looks back up, the demon’s transformed into Rob the intern. “That doesn’t solve anything! You’re still another Harry!”

“Believe me,” the demon says. “No one will notice a thing.” His smug drawl is out of place coming from Rob’s eager, freshly scrubbed face.

The angel stands up and moves toward the television, keeping his back to the door and trying to block the bellhop’s view of Harry on screen. “God… and his friends!” exclaims Harry. The angel narrows his eyes suspiciously. How does Harry know about God’s friends?

Behind him, Rob the intern's voice effusively thanks the bellhop. At the sound of the door closing, the angel relaxes and sinks onto the sofa. The demon joins him, back in his jumpsuited form. He slides his cheeseburger and a dish of limes onto the coffee table. 

“Listen to that accent!” the angel exclaims as Magnus introduces himself. Harry’s really far more versatile than the angel gave him credit for. This is very impressive.

“Shame he’s not the pregnant one,” the demon comments. He uncorks the tequila and adds a generous pour to each glass. “You’re not, are you?”

“Not what?” The angel looks at him quizzically.

“Pregnant.” The demon’s eyes smoulder as as he licks his wrist with a slow, wide swipe of his tongue.

“No…” The question is baffling but also somehow embarrassing. “Is that… possible?”

“You never know.” The demon sprinkles salt on his damp wrist. “But if you’re not pregnant, there won’t be any problem with this, will there?” He punctuates the question by sliding a tumbler of tequila down the tabletop toward the angel. As the angel catches it before it topples over the edge, the demon holds his own tumbler up expectantly. 

The angel touches his glass to the demon’s. “To Harry.”

“And Harry, and Harry, and Harry,” the demon adds with relish, taking a gulp of tequila.

The angel sips more modestly, closing his eyes at the burn. When he opens them, the demon’s arm is extended toward him, hand bent back to expose his wrist. Salt crystals glimmer on his skin.

With heat trickling up his spine, the angel bends in and touches his tongue briefly to the demon’s pulse. His mouth waters.

“Good.” The demon plucks a lime wedge from the dish and tosses it to the angel before licking the remainder of the salt off his wrist with a broad-tongued flourish.

The angel suddenly remembers Harry. Face burning, he snaps his attention back toward the television.

“There’s that jumpsuit,” the demon says with satisfaction as the first musical number starts. He swings his legs into the angel’s lap and settles back against the throw pillows at the end of the sofa. “Color’s a little bland, though. I did like that silver one.”

The angel touches the demon’s sequined knee and glances sideways at him. “I like the purple better.”

“Thank you,” the demon says with great satisfaction. He wriggles further down the sofa, so that the angel’s hand slides from his knee up to his thigh. The demon’s body always seems to be a couple of degrees warmer than any other being the angel knows of. Hopefully the performance of Lights Up will be on YouTube later. It’s a little hard to focus right now.

But when Harry appears in a pilot’s uniform, he forgets all about the weight of the demon’s legs in his lap. Harry’s hair... “Is he gray?” the angel asks with surprise.

“Distinguished, isn’t he?” The demon’s fingers toy with the angel’s ruffled cuff, brushing over his wrist.

The angel leans toward the screen. Pinned under the demon’s legs, he can’t spring up to inspect as closely as he wants to. “Is it a different one?”

“Naaaah, it’s all makeup.” The demon flattens a hand on his chest and presses the angel back toward the sofa. “Relax.”

“Are you sure?” Harry’s been awfully busy tonight. Suspiciously busy. The angel squints at the screen. Is it all the same Harry?

“Of course I’m sure.” The demon’s sedative voice is convincing. He traces the line of the angel’s collar. “He’s going to age well, isn’t he?”

The angel sighs and relaxes back against the cushion. “Oh, they all are.” 

He lets the demon tug the bow of his jabot loose and marvels at Harry’s bizarre accent and terrible jokes. Until the next sketch. The angel tenses forward as soon as Thug 1 appears on screen.

“That’s not the same one,” the angel says decisively, shaking off the demon’s hand. “That one’s got crazy eyes.”

“It’s fiiiiiine,” the demon whines, crawling closer on the sofa. “He’s an actor. He’s impressive. They almost made him the Little Mermaid, of course he can pull off those braids.”

"He was supposed to be Prince Eric," the angel corrects.

The demon snorts. "Shows what you know."

"Never mind, listen to that accent,” the angel says worriedly. “That can’t be the same one who played Magnus.” He bends to grab his laptop from the far end of the coffee table, shouldering the demon aside. “Maybe there are credits…”

“Of course there aren’t credits,” the demon huffs as his feet thump back onto the floor. “It’s just going to say Harry Styles. What are you expecting, a nice scrolling list that says, ‘Harry Styles from KL154X7, and Harry Styles from WK373Y2, and Harry Styles from Eroda’?”

“Oh shit, is it the one from Eroda? This is a disaster.” The angel types “SNL” into the search bar. Instagram, goddammit. Does no one have a web site anymore? He backs up, clicking frantically against the slow hotel WiFi. All roads lead to the SNL Instagram.

“I’m  _ joking _ .” The demon gently but insistently tugs the laptop out of his hands and sets it back on the table. “See?” He pokes a thumb under the angel’s chin and prods his face back toward the television.

The angel exhales. It’s Rob the intern again. No, wait, now he’s named Dylan? At least his accent is somewhat subdued.

The demon curls up next to him with an arm around his shoulders. “Same old Harry.”

“Oh…” The angel breathes a sigh of relief. “Yes, that’s definitely him. All he had to do was say ‘getting railed to death’.”

“Right! How many times have you heard him say that?” Somehow the demon’s in his lap now, straddling the angel’s thighs. He’s found the zipper to the white jumpsuit. 

“So many,” the angel sighs. The demon’s hands are as warm as the rest of him. “Sounds better in your accent.” Unlike Harry’s speech lately, the demon’s hasn’t been polluted by California..

“What does?” the demon murmurs. He leans in. “Getting… railed… to… death?” He enunciates each word slowly, letting his lips brush the angel’s ear.

“Yeah…,” the angel breathes, “that....” He pushes apart the deep neckline of the sequin jumpsuit, trying to work both halves off the demon’s shoulders. The demon grinds down into his lap slowly and purposefully. 

This is probably forbidden, somehow. Or maybe God and his friends haven’t even considered the possibility.

Over the demon’s shoulder, the screen on the laptop loads into focus. Harry appears. Three of him. Ten of him. Twenty of him? A row of Harrys in black leotards vogues in sequence. A Harry in a silk shirt smiles winningly. Harry after Harry after Harry fans himself. There’s  _ so many of them _ . “Oh....” The angel bats at the demon’s shoulder. “Oh, there’s definitely more than one.”

“Is there?” The demon’s voice rises with incredulity. “ _ Is there? _ ” He looks over his shoulder, fingertips still resting on the exposed skin just beneath the angel’s butterfly tattoo. “Oh shit, there is.” 

“Look, that one’s backwards!” The angel laughs in disbelief. He reaches around the demon for his glass of tequila and takes a bracing, burning swig. Somehow, a gathering of dancing Harrys in sweater vests seems funny. Not like a dangerous breach of the space-time continuum.

The demon lets his forehead drop to the angel’s shoulder, cackling helplessly. It only sounds a little bit demonic.

The angel tosses aside the empty glass and pokes him. “No, no, you have to see this one. Look at him go!” One of the Harrys tosses his hair and stares seductively at them over a bared shoulder.

The demon turns his head just enough to see the laptop, forehead still against the angel’s cheek. “That one’s gunning for my job.”

“One of you is plenty.” The angel traces his fingers over the familiar numbers inked onto the outside of the demon’s arm. The tattoos look different on him, as if his hellfire body heat has baked them into his skin.

“That’s right.” The demon tugs at a lace cuff until the angel lets his arm slide out of his sleeve. He pulls the angel’s blouse over his head and drags both hands down the angel’s chest.

The angel glances futilely at the laptop. “Should I do something about this?”

“Nah.” The demon continues to deconstruct the angel’s jumpsuit with efficiency and enthusiasm. “They can’t cause any more trouble together than they can on their own, can they?” 

“I suppose they can’t.” The angel tips his head away from the screen, letting the demon mouth at his throat. The Harrys loop again and again on the laptop behind the demon, vogueing and kicking and preening, ready to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting world.

**Author's Note:**

> always up for discussing harrycest over at [tumblr](https://ferryboatpeak.tumblr.com/)


End file.
